Music And Love, Larry Stylinson
by IAmADirectioner
Summary: Harry Styles, a new student in university and fresh out of a breakup, needed something. It turned out to be a someone. Louis Tomlinson. (SUCKY SUMMARY, RIGHT?) Larry Stylinson. Don't Own 'Em. One Direction.


Harold 'Harry' Edward (Milward, if you wish) Styles. An average, 18-year-old boy, who just finished school, and was now in university. Despite being quite good-looking, with brown, curly locks and warm green eyes, he was always a bit of a loner, mainly because he was very gifted. Not just in studies, but in arts, and music. Whenever you caught him outside of class, he would be listening to his iPod, and when he would pull out his earphone to hear what you had just asked him, you wouldn't hear modern, jumpy, hip-hop (or whatever teenagers usually listen to, nowadays) music. It would be something simple, a ballad, plain guitar, piano, or melodious lyrics. Occasionally classical. And as soon as he answered your question, he would get a longing look in his eyes, and look back down, glancing at his iPod. And you would know you should leave, because the strain in his eyes was something you felt guilty for causing. And when there was an arts class, you would see his drawing, or painting, which he made to the topic the teacher would assign them, and wonder just what was going through his head when he made what he did. Because there were strange, hidden things in it, which you wouldn't think of making at all, until you saw the work, and realized just how much sense it made.  
All in all, Harry didn't spend much time with people. Despite feeling a bit sad when he saw groups of people together, he didn't mind much. He enjoyed musing about life's mysteries, and joys, or about which note would sound better for a particular song. Just simple things which lead to little happinessess, because to get to the best rose, you have to go through the hardest thorns, and buttercups and tulips are just as beautiful as any rose - if you want to see them that way, that is. And Harry did see them that way. He saw the beautiful saffron in the buttercups, and how the tulips seemed to glow when sunlight hit them. He saw the delicated tracery of green in them, the swirl of pink, orange, and yellow in the tulips, and how they were shaped like cups, maybe for pixies to drink out of. See? Simple happinesses.  
He was content alone, maybe because he was used to it. But nobody knew.

Then, a month into his first year, he met a girl.  
She was quite pretty, and spoke her thoughts. But what really interested him was the way her hair seemed to spill like a thousand shades of wheat onto her shoulders (how he wanted to paint that on to a giant piece of canvas), and how her voice had a melodious lilt to it, and how she laughed softly when he talked to her. And she liked music. That was a major. He could talk about his love of music with her, and she would listen intently. And so, at last, he asked her out for tea.  
She agreed immediately, and soon, they were 'going out'. Walked together, talked together. They hugged, clasped hands, and yes, kissed.  
But two weeks in, Harry realized something. How her eyes seemed to glaze over when he struck up conversation (only to light up infront of her friends, when she introduced him to them), and how he himself hardly noticed her. His only interest, he realized, was their common interest in music. And she never mentioned it anymore.

And when he tried to speak about it, she would just sigh, and answer with as minimum syllables as possible.

Soon, she came up to him and told him, sadly, that she had never really been that interested. He was "goodlooking, and... and nice... and... well", but she didn't like him much.

But Harry felt unhappy. He knew by the way she could only describe him as 'goodlooking', that she only picked him as an accessory. As something her friends could _Oooh_ and _Aaaaah_ over. And he was angry about it too, by however little, because he didn't want anybody to be near him who only liked him because he was 'cute', or 'hot'. But mostly, it was sadness. He had actually liked her; she was the first person he'd ever fallen for. And she had been faking.

The next few days, Harry felt distracted and anxious. Even sketching didn't sooth his nerves. He felt used, and vulnerable. He heard whispers of people, saying, _Oh, he's the poor sap Sandra dumped. He should've known._  
He noticed someone looking at him, differently then all the other looks - kind of concerned - but he didn't want to talk to anyone, and at last, in frustration, he headed off to a (music) practice room. One he knew well.

It was a big, elegant room, which sunlight fell into like a brilliant waterfall, with a magnificently old and worn piano sitting in a corner. He traced its lining with his fingertips, feeling the fingers of others in the warm wood. He let his fingertips walk over the piano keys, making a falling sound.  
_Plink, plink, plink, plink, plink..._

Notes chimed into the atmosphere, wavering, then fading as another took its place. At the last note, he sighed, and slid into the piano seat.

It cushioned him well, as if to say it could take Harry's burden away. Harry's fingers skipped over the keys, bringing a string of notes into the air.  
Piano playing was something he was really good at, and absolutely loved. He loved how it sounded so solemn but sweet. It was something he practiced at quite often; something which actually got him properly focused.

Harry selected a notebook from his school bag, his personal diary, where he penned down songs. And out fell a page he didn't know, which read lyrics he couldn't recall writing. But as he read them, his interest heightened. And they were written right next to the paired music notes.

Whoever wrote them shouldn't have left them in his diary. And he wasn't plagarizing. Just checking them out...

Harry looked over the notes and words, and, though he had to study some of them hard, because the handwriting was a sort of scrawl, he understood it. And it was incomplete, but he didn't mind. He was, after all, just sampling...

He played it, and sang softly along to it. It came out like a rush, a desperate rush, wanting to be free.  
It was sweet, and sad, and was an exaggerated way of how he was feeling. But it wasn't quite right.  
He wanted to fix it. It was a longing deep inside of him, a yearning he needed to stop. He had to stop it.

But instead, he began re-writing it into a page in his diary.

Again and again, his excitement quickened. The base of the song was amazing, and he just barely needed to edit it.  
_But what about the incompletetion...?  
_No, he contradicted himself. He shouldn't complete a song he hadn't written.

But soon enough, he had finished it.  
It must have been half an hour, at least. But it only felt like minutes. Harry stared, cheeks flushed, at the new piece. He had played around with the notes too.

He wasn't going to ever play this again, he knew. He would chuck it in the bin as soon as he played it. No way would he take someone's ideas.

But he had to play it.

Harry set the pages infront of him, the notes staring at him fiercely, a burning black on the clean, lined notepaper. They beckoned him to the piano keys, his slender hands slipping into the right places. He touched the keys, and they let out a reply, a chime.  
Harry breathed in deeply, shaking his curls from his face. His hands began playing.  
And he began singing.

_"Said I'd never leave her cause her hands fit like my t-shirt,_  
_Tongue-tied over three words, cursed._  
_Running over thoughts that make my feet hurt,_  
_Body's intertwined with her lips..."_  
His heart was racing. It was already weaving an intricate set of notes into the air.

_"Now she's feeling so low since she went solo_  
_Hole in the middle of my heart like a polo_  
_And it's no joke to me_  
_So can we do it all over again?"_  
And the chorus.

_"If you're pretending from the start like this,_  
_With a tight grip, then my kiss_  
_Can mend your broken heart_  
_I might miss everything you said to me_

_And I can lend you broken parts_  
_That might fit like this_  
_And I will give you all my heart_  
_So we can start it all over again..."_

Harry paused in his singing, his hands scampering over the keys eagerly. His heart was buzzing with adrenaline.

_"...Can we take the same road two days in the same clothes?_  
_And I know just what she'll say if I can make all this pain go_  
_Can we stop this for a minute?_  
_You know, I can tell that your heart isn't in it or with it."_

The next verse, he hadn't touched. It had seemed perfect the way it was.

_"Tell me with your mind, body and spirit_  
_I can make your tears fall down like the showers that are British_  
_Whether we're together or apart_  
_We can both remove the masks and admit we regret it from the start,_

_If you're pretending from the start like this,_  
_With a tight grip, then my kiss_  
_Can mend your broken heart_  
_I might miss everything you said to me_

_And I can lend you broken parts_  
_That might fit like this_  
_And I will give you all my heart_  
_So we can start it all over again..."_

The pattern was being woven into colors, brilliant ones. Purples, greens, reds. It was beautiful.

_"You'll never know how to make it on your own_  
_And you'll never show weakness for letting go_  
_I guess you're still hurt if this is over_  
_But do you really want to be alone?_

_If you're pretending from the start like this,_  
_With a tight grip, then my kiss_  
_Can mend your broken heart_  
_I might miss everything you said to me..."_  
His voice had softened instincitvely at this bit. It came out like a rush of wind through a willow tree.

_"And I can lend you broken parts_  
_That might fit like this_  
_And I will give you all my heart_  
_So we can start it all over again..._

_If you're pretending from the start like this,_  
_With a tight grip, then my kiss_  
_Can mend your broken heart_  
_I might miss everything you said to me_

_And I can lend you broken parts_  
_That might fit like this_  
_And I will give you all my heart_  
_So we can start it all over again."_

He finished the piano at the exact time as the lyrics finished. He stared, breathing heavily, at the keys.  
That had sounded so much better than anything he had ever done before. It had breathed, cried, and whispered into his ears. It had been... magical.  
But he sighed. It wasn't his song. He had to throw it away.

He took the page he had written everything on, and crumpled it up.

"NO!"  
A hand wrapped itself around his wrist, and Harry froze.

"Don't!" the voice cried out. "Please, don't!"

Harry stared at the tanned hand on his wrist, and then slowly looked down at the person whose hand it was.

The boy was slightly shorter than him. He was wearing a casual V-neck, beige sweater, and maroon trousers. He had hair the color of faded wood, but strangely feathery. But it was his eyes that intrigued Harry. They were a hazy blue, like a cloudy summer sky, with a tinge of green in it. Like a cloudy summer sky reflected into a blue-green, shallow water ocean.

Usually, he'd be imagining how that would look on a canvas. But he was shocked.

"That was so beautiful," the boy said softly. "Please don't throw it away."

His voice struck a chord in Harry that resonated through his being. Atlast, he found his voice.

"It's not mine," he murmured. "The song. I can't - I mean, I won't - " He struggled to explain his good intentions to the other.

The boy smiled. "I know. It's mine."

Harry stared, horror-struck. He had plagarized someone's song... and that someone was confronting him. His cheeks burned with shame.

"I'm sorry. I'll throw it away now," he said anxiously, and made to move toward the dustbin.

And the fingers on his wrist clenched almost painfully hard, shooting tingles into his arm. Harry winced. But it was a good sort of pain.

"No!" the boy said hastily. "It doesn't matter. It's yours now."

"No," Harry said flatly. "I refuse to take it. I ruined it."  
He knew he hadn't _really_ ruined it; merely made a different variation of it. But he had changed it without permission, so basically, he did ruin it. And he wanted this person to understand, that he was sorry, that he made a mistake, and, strangely, Harry wanted him to see he was a good person.

"You certainly didn't ruin it," the boy stated. "You made it... magical. You made it so beautiful. I didn't even know it could sound like that." There was a dreamy undernote in his words. Like he actually believed what he was saying.

Harry studied the boy. He recognized him. "You were looking at me today, weren't you?" he asked atlast. He vaguely remembered that gaze. He absently wondered how he couldn't have been so attracted to it before. Because, well, he was quite sure he was attracted to it.

The boy blinked. "Oh. Yes. You're usually so calm, and today you seemed agitated. I was curious."

"How do you know I'm usually calm?" Harry asked automatically.

The boy, surprisingly, went red. "Well... everyone talks about you."

Harry blinked. "Do they?" He'd never heard them. Then again, he usually didn't listen.

"Nothing bad," the boy reassured him. "Well, usually. Anyway. Could you play it again? Please?"

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the look on the other's face stopped him. Instead, he lingered.

"I really don't think..." Harry began.

"Please...?" the other asked softly, and Harry couldn't refuse. He unusurely sat back at the piano. The boy leaned onto the side of it.  
"Well, go on," the boy prodded.

Harry glanced at the other doubtfully, and he had an intense look on his face. Something which triggered Harry's fingers into playing again. And Harry fond his voice, and sang again. It had a nervous tremor to it, but Harry did his best. For reasons unknown, he wanted to impress this boy. But he shouldn't want to; it wasn't his song.  
But he did, and he couldn't help it.  
When he finished it again, the boy sighed. Harry immediately looked at him.

"Sorry," he said at once.

The boy blinked. "What? No! I sighed because it was so... overwhelming."

"Well..." Harry didn't know what to say. "Bye," he said hastily, and stood. But the boy tugged him back down, and he stumbled back onto the chair with a bang. He was surprised; this boy was stronger than he thought. Harry noticed the muscles in his arms, which, on a slender boy like the boy, should have looked queer. But it didn't. And now he noticed it, the boy wasn't too slender - he could see a small tummy peaking out of his shirt. But Harry found sweet. Imperfections only made people more beautiful, and he liked finding the beauty in people.  
But he shouldn't find the beauty in that boy...

"Wait. At least a proper good bye?" the boy pleaded. He stuck out his hand. Harry reluctantly shook it.

"Goodbye, Harry," the boy murmured. He brushed his side-fringe from his eyes, in a way Harry found strangely endearing.

"Goodbye... erm..." Harry couldn't recall his name.

"Louis. Louis Tomlinson," the boy offered.

"Louis." And he rememberd something. "Oh! You sang once in my music class, didn't you?"

Louis automatically looked embarassed. "Well, yeah."

He remembered being interested in Louis's voice. It was unique, and he liked it.

"Well," Louis said suddenly, "You keep the piece. It was nice to meet you. Bye."

He took one step before Harry stepped infront of him. His body sent him mixed signals at the intimacy with Louis. "I am not taking this piece," said Harry cooly.

"Yes, you are," Louis replied.

"No, I'm NOT," Harry stated. "I couldn't."

Louis looked at him, right in the eye. Harry felt something flicker in him.  
"Please take it. For me," Louis said quietly.

Harry stared into Louis's eyes, which were such a beautiful color. He wanted to paint it into a lake, into an endless supply of pure water.

He couldn't refuse - again. "Fine," Harry muttered.

Louis flashed him a smile. "Great," he told Harry. "Goodbye."  
And Harry's mind shreiked in protest.

"Wait," Harry said quickly. "At - atleast sing a bit of it for me?"  
Louis looked doubtful. "Well..."

"For me," Harry added, persuadingly. He automatically pushed his curls from his face.

"Ok," the other agreed, after a moment's hesitation. He took the paper from Harry's hand, and smoothened it out. His eyes flickered over the lyrics, then he sang.

_"Tell me with your mind, body and spirit_  
_I can make your tears fall down like the showers that are British_  
_Whether we're together or apart_  
_We can both remove the masks and admit we regret it from the start..."_

And he handed the paper back to Harry. "Thank you, and good night," Louis said, grinning.

"Wait!" Harry interrupted. Louis looked surprised at his outburst.

"Louis, that was really good," Harry breathed.  
And it was. It hadn't been so strong. Or loud. But it had a special part to it, which rose Harry's spirits like a hot air balloon. He had liked the hoarseness in Louis's voice when he tried to hit the high notes.

The feather-haired boy cracked a smile. "I try."

And, with that impossibly sweet smile, Harry found himself speaking something he thought he would never say again.  
"Would you like to go out for some tea later on, and maybe try for some more lyrics?"

His mind set off alarm signals, as well as cheered him on. Harry knew at once he meant those words in the same way he did for the girl, Sandra. But, he supposed, that was ok. He couldn't help this. Louis was just too much to give up.

Louis blinked, and for a split second, Harry became worried. What if he had made a mistake?

"I would love to," Louis said gently.  
Harry's face split into a grin. "Ok."

"Bye," Louis said.

"Bye," Harry said softly, watching Louis turn and leave, watching him become engrossed in his phone, watching him absently open the door and slipping outside, and watching how Louis's expression was happy. Very happy.

Later, the two of them met up, in the grounds, and they headed of for tea, to a cafe. They talked... and talked... and talked.  
They wrote another song together, Louis supplying lyrics, Harry the music, and vice versa. It was fun, and a campfire warmth expanded in Harry's chest.

Louis was 20, sweet, kind, brave - except when facing spiders, Harry learned one day - undoubtedly slightly perverted, uncertain of himself, a jokester, and everything Harry wanted in a good friend. And, yes, girlfriend, or boyfriend.

They learned eachother's nooks and crannies, hopes, dreams, crazes. Louis was fond of stripes and braces. Harry was fond of blazers and skinny jeans, though Louis teased him about looking like a Jonas Brother.  
But they shared something special.

In the second half of the year, Louis got extremely drunk, and Harry had to take him home. Louis was a giggling wreck, crying and laughing at the same time. Harry didn't understand why he was crying.

"Oh, Haz, Haz, Haz," Louis had giggled when Harry timidly asked him. "Can't you tell?"

Unfortunately, he couldn't. He told Louis so.

"Oh, HARRY!" Louis yelled.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, blushing. He felt silly.

"You're so cute when you blush," Louis said dazedly.  
Harry stiffened. A shiver ran down his spine.

"Well, you're very cute otherwise, too," Louis debated, laughing.

Harry felt warm. "Louis..." he murmured.

"More than cute. More than pretty too!" Louis shouted, sputtering. Tears spattered onto the floor, but he was still laughing. Harry felt confused.

He had unplatonic feelings for Louis, he knew. But he had never quite figured them out, and he didn't want to ruin their friendship.  
And he didn't want to feel heartbroken again.

Harry groped for an excuse, for an explanation, something to stop this from happening to him, so suddenly, so right _now._

"Louis, you're drunk," he said atlast.

Louis sniffled. "Am not. I only had one glass... no, wait, two. Oh, I remember. I was too busy staring at you to count, and then everything became so pretty and glowing. Like you." Louis perked up. "You look very beautiful when you glow."

Darkness shadowed Harry from Louis's view, and it felt like it was trying to swallow Harry up, stopping his breathing. He didn't know what to do, what to say.

"I..." Harry lost his words when Louis stepped up infront of him, right, right infront of him.

"You're very beautiful, Harry," Louis muttered.

Harry could barely breathe. The distance between Louis and himself was only a few precious centimetres.

Louis laughed, a little crazily. "Not even handsome, but beautiful. No wonder I fell in love with you."

And Harry's heart stopped. Or, something like that.

"I love you, Harry," Louis breathed, gazing up into Harry's eyes. "I love you."

Harry's mind worked overtime to understand what was happening. Louis couldn't love him.

He shook his head.

"I really love you, Haz," Louis said earnestly, no longer crying, or laughing. "I love you more than I think is possible."

"No, Louis..." Harry whispered.

And Louis froze.

Harry could feel the tension and fear rising through Louis's body. "Y-you don't believe me?" the feather-haired boy asked.

"Louis... you're drunk," Harry repeated helplessly. "You don't know what you're saying. You need to go to bed."

Louis's eyes darkened to a murky green. "You think I'm lying?"

"You don't know what you're saying. You need to go to bed." Harry felt like a stupid broken record, not functioning, not working, not doing anything but repeating, repeating, trapped in a rut.

"I know what I'm talking about!" Louis said harshly. "I'm sober, Harry, and I mean what I'm saying. I. Love. You."

Harry shook his head. "No, Louis..." he trailed of.

"No!" Louis said angrily. "I know what I'm saying! I'm not crazy! I love you, Harry, and I know you love me, too!"

Harry stopped doing what he was doing; attempting to propel Louis to his room. He felt bizarrely dizzy, now. Louis turned to face him.

"I know you love me. I know you do."

"I... I don't know..."

"No!" Louis was starting to yell. "I KNOW you love me! I know it! Don't lie to me, Harry Styles!"

"Louis..." Harry said uselessly. He didn't know. He didn't. His brain had short circuited, and nothing made sense.

Louis slammed Harry into the wall, pinning him there. "I feel the way you look at me! I see it in your eyes, the same thing I feel for you! I KNOW it, I KNOW it!"

"Louis, please... you don't know what - " Harry began in a whisper.

"I AM NOT DRUNK! I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU, HARRY! AND I KNOW YOU LOVE ME TOO!" Louis shouted, sounding scarily insane.

"I don't know if I do." The words flew from his mouth in desperation. He didn't really know what he felt for Louis, and he was terrified out of his mind that Louis was just drunk, just crazy, and he didn't mean it, and in the morning, he would apologize and say, I don't know what I was doing. I took advantage of you. I'm really sorry. Pretend it never happened? And Harry would have to suffer the pain of realizing his love didn't love him back. Maybe he was his love, afterall.

Louis stared at him, incredulous and still a bit crazy. "You love me."

"I don't -"

"You. Love. Me," Louis cut him off harshly. "I'm not giving you an option."

Harry was terrified. "Louis, please, you're scaring me now."

"Why can't you just admit it?" yelled Louis hysterically. "WHY DON'T YOU ACCEPT IT?"

Harry just stared into Louis's twisted aqua eyes.

"I'll show you. I'll show you!" Louis said darkly, and Harry felt fear jolt in him. What was he going to do, would he hurt him, would he scream at him, would he -

And Louis kissed him.  
Had Harry had any doubts about his feelings for Louis before, he didn't then.  
He was drowning deeply in love with Louis William Tomlinson.

When he woke up the next morning in bed with Louis - fully clothed - he found the ocean-like eyes staring in to his own, shining like a saty drop of water that caught the light at just the right angle.

"Hey," he said raspily. He wasn't a morning person.

Louis just smiled back, his head propped up on his elbow. "Hey," he replied.

Harry struggled to sit up. "About last night..."

Louis shook his head. "Harry, no. No excuses, no pardons, no sorrys, no nothing. Just tell me flat out. I already told you my feelings last night - yes, I remember. I don't WANT to hide anymore, I'm exhausted. I want to hear what you think. So tell me. Do you like me or not?"

Louis looked firm and plain, but in his eyes, next to hope, Harry saw fear lurking. Louis, he realized, was scared. He was very scared. He was scared Harry wouldn't like him, wouldn't accept him, would hate him for the rest of his life.

"Louis..." Harry sighed. "I.. don't like you."

The hope and fear in his eyes dripped away, like watery paint on a wall, and left behind a pure surface of pain and misery.  
"Oh," he whispered. "I - fine. Ok."  
Louis started pulling away when Harry seized his arm, turning the feather-haired boy to face him, so their noses were almost touching.

"I think..." Harry hesiatated. He wanted be so sure. "I think I love you."

And Louis's eyes burst into light again. "Oh, thank God," he muttered, before pressing his lips against Harry's again.

They never really went through the whole 'will-you-be-my-boyfriend' stage. They both simply accepted the fact that they were. After half a year, the two publicly announced it. No one in the Uni judged them. They all grinned at Harry and Louis teasingly when they passed by.

"Heeeeey, Louis. Can I have some boyfriend time too?"  
"Get some, Harry!"  
"Me and Kate are going out for dinner tonight. Maybe we could... double date... but we'd cut in on your 'personal time', wouldn't we?"

Louis would grin playfully at these comments, while Harry would just laugh softly, but neither of them minded the light teasing. No one was against them, so they were happy.  
"Together forever," one of Louis's friends, Eleanor, said with a grin when Harry and Louis walked in, holding hands. They both blushed when she said that, and Louis ruffled her hair playfully.

And it was. Together forever. Because there was something about Louis which made Harry feel special, loved. Lou had taken him under his wing in his first year, and he had been such a great friend. He kept him steady on his feet, gave him something to really live for everyday. For Louis, Harry was a bolt from the blue, that made his heart spin crazily and made him really pass the lines between reality and imagination. With Harry, that line was thin and sometimes not even there. They both needed eachother so desperately.  
But mainly, it was because of the music that spun inbetween them like a ballerina in a little girl's jewelry box, singing beautifully, striking them both down in one blow.  
And that was all they needed.


End file.
